he felt his way to the door and, dropping to the stone step below, beat weakly on the stout oak planks.
There they found him a minute or two later when, doubtfully, they unbarred the door and peered out. He was sound asleep then, but as willing hands lifted him across the threshold he awakened startledly.
“Major Willard?” he whispered. “I bring a message to him from Brookfield, He—is here?”
“Nay, but close by. Give me your message and I will bear it, lad.”
“Monapikot, the Pegan, bids him haste to Brookfield. The Indians have attacked. Many English are slain. The garrison is besieged—by four hundred or more. Philip leads them.” David’s voice faltered. “There is more, but I—forget!” His head fell back and he slept again.
An hour only they gave him, and then he awoke to find the small room with its homely and scanty furnishings, so like his own home, filled with grave-faced men. One in soldier’s accouterment sat on the edge of the pallet, a lean-countenanced man whose long, straight nose and wide-set eyes spoke courage and wisdom.
